The Sands Of Time

It seems as if the sky fell through the clouds again this fall.
Bringing spring flowers rain and all.
The bitter spice rang up a call.
Through the rue and stew created by all.
A melody that can’t be sung at all.
A summer tune is soon to call bringing a smiling face upon all.
Until then all we can do is try to see through the fog.
A smog hovers over us until solutions are found.
If not then that will be our bitter ending melody of a sound.
A society mislead by misinterpreting philosophical transcriptions.
We misread between the lines counting down till the end of time.
The bitter spice rang up a call.
A call to reconstruct a place back to what it used to be.
Its inevitability binds us into something we cannot reverse.
Too much time has passed and here we are some of the last.
For new life forms from the irritable bowels of the mother of life.
Into the hands of time the sands of time drains out its last grain.
New species form from the bowels of the mother life.
Being discovered is just a small part of the new life.
Discovery does not matter but what it’s bound to replace is soon to be extinct.
Like the hands of puppeteers playing us like beings on strings.
Here we are in the end of time winding down.
Just hope the last sound you hear is one from someone you hold dear.

by Sean Kievman

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